Empty Mugs and Not Quite Hugs
by squishychickies
Summary: Draco Malfoy is as dead as can be-this small hindrance doesn't stop him from appearing in this kitchen of the Boy Who Lived and wreaking havoc upon Harry's quiet life.
1. Chapter 1

**PART ONE:**

In a grisly gray prison on a rock in the ocean, a wizard sits in a protective magical sphere. The inmates have been temporarily evacuated, but a sea of tall, dark-robed creatures with gaping black mouths and dark, baleful pits in place of eyes huddle, floating inches above the damp ground, stare up at the wizard. The darkest, coldest creatures known to wizardkind; it only seems appropriate that they perish in a sea of light and warmth.

The wizard lifts his wand and sweeps it through the air like a sword. From it pours a river of leaping, wailing flame. Glowing orange hyenas gallop, cackling, through the crowd of Dementors, burning all they touch. Dragons of pure fire follow, using their red-hot teeth to tear through the creatures like air. Burning horses bound from the wand, wreaking destruction upon the Dementors. They are accompanied by tigers and lions and eagles of fire.

The fiendfyre makes quick work of the darkest creatures-soon, nothing remains of the Dementors on the island. If anybody looked now, there would be no sign that anything but the brutal animal fire had ever inhabited the rock in the sea. That, and the bluish balls of light that were liberated when the Dementors holding them died. They rise into the air, glowing, and disperse. The wind carries them swiftly to where they belong-because they are Souls of living humans, and each one of them has a person it must return to. All but one.

**July 1st:**

Harry tosses his third empty tea mug of the day into the sink, where it shatters with a sharp tinkle. He sighs and throws a quick _reparo _into its general direction, but doesn't bother to check if the spell actually hit the mug or not. The Savior of the Wizarding World is _far _too preoccupied to deal with that at the moment.

The next term at Hogwarts begins in two months, and Harry has been offered the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor by the current Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall. Though she's assured him that the position is no longer cursed and that he's the best man for the job (because who on Earth has qualifications better than defeating a Dark Lord?) Harry is still hesitant to accept the offer-which he has four weeks to respond to, else the position will be given away.

Harry picks up his quill to start a letter, though he's still unsure what its contents will be. The job is a tempting opportunity, by all accounts, but the prospect of staying home all day to laze around and wallow in his guilt is equally attractive.

Not that Harry's house is a comfortable place to wallow. His cottage in a small muggle village had been comfortable and clean when he'd bought it, but in the year he's inhabited it, he doesn't think he's cleaned anything. Ever. Mugs and dishes and old clothes can be found in any room, along with a layer of dust and grime. The honey colored wood floors are covered in dirt, and the grayish yellow walls can only _dream _of the beautiful white they'd once been. The state of the furniture-lush, comfortable, and possibly infested with seven different types of parasites-is best left unmentioned.

Harry thinks that he probably should get around to cleaning the place, but like every day, he dismisses the thought and goes back to writing his letter.

_Dear Headmistress McGonagall_ is all he has time to write before Harry is startled by a sudden voice from behind.

"Your handwriting is even more _ghastly_ than I remembered, Potter. Not to mention the state of your hair."

Harry's heart stops. This can't be happening. There's no way… but he would know that voice anywhere. "_Malfoy?"_ he demands, turning around to face his Hogwarts rival. When he sees the blond man leaning against his kitchen counter, calm as can be, he gasps, "Holy fuck. How are you even _here? _You're-"

"Dead," Malfoy finishes helpfully. "Yes, I've noticed."

Well, maybe _Malfoy_ has noticed, but Harry almost wouldn't have if he hadn't seen him die, right before his eyes, _at the end of his own wand_, just one year ago. He looks just as he had in life-haughty, with the Malfoy family's patent-pending I'm-too-good-for-you expression, and impeccably dressed with professionally tailored robes that drape his lanky frame like they'd been made for him. Which, Harry reminds himself, they probably were. He bears no signs of the wounds he'd died from.

When Harry manages to pull his shit together (a process which takes a minute of staring, gaping, and expressive yet silent hand gestures) the first logical thing he can think to ask is, "So, are you a ghost, then?"

Malfoy rolls his eyes, the impossible git. "Obviously not, Potter," he drawls. "I'm _touching_ the counter. Though it's so dirty, I'm not sure it's safe."

"Well, how am I supposed to know how ghosts work?" Harry ignores the insult to demand, scowling at Malfoy. It's like nothing has changed, although logically Harry knows that _everything _has. Everything has changed.

This man-ghost-_thing _standing in front of Harry, slightly transparent and glowing a faint blue, is not the same person as the little boy who had insulted Harry's friends and then asked to shake his hand, nor is he the scared, ignorant servant of Voldemort that Harry had known in sixth year. He's not the bully who made and distributed _Potter Stinks _badges at a time when Harry desperately needed support. He is not the unexpected ally Harry had fought beside in the last hours of the war. He is a culmination of all those things and more, standing in front of Harry in his very own kitchen, smirking and insulting his intelligence like it's third year Potions once more. For a brief, crazy second, Harry almost wishes it was.

"Oh, I don't know," replies Malfoy with a sneer, "It's not like you had six years of magical education in a castle full of ghosts, or anything."

"Yes, and I'd have had no reason at all to be preoccupied. Not like there were any dark wizards out there trying to kill me, or anything. You had it much harder, I'm sure. Must have been a lot of work, managing your minions at the same time as trying to absorb some semblance of education with a brain the size of a walnut." Saying this, Harry almost smiles for the first time in a while. It feels fantastic to be insulting Malfoy again, for some reason.

Malfoy does not share Harry's joy, it would appear. "Sod off, you bugger," he says.

"Oops," says Harry with a grin. "Wouldn't want you to go tell Daddy on me, would I?"

Somehow, shockingly, Malfoy rolls his eyes and then returns Harry's grin. "Sod off," he says again, "or I swear to Merlin I'll haunt you."

"I thought we'd been through this already," Harry says lightly. "You're not a ghost, remember? No haunting allowed."

Malfoy says, "Hmph." He crosses his arms and tosses his hair with more finesse than most of the girls Harry knows. It's impossible not to smile a little wider at that.

After a moment of silence, Harry questions, "Anyways, if you're not a ghost, what are you?"

For the first time in living (or dead?) memory, Malfoy looks confused. "I'm not sure. This is the first time I've been...aware, I guess, since I died. How long ago was that, anyway?"

"'Bout a year," Harry tells him.

Malfoy seems alarmed at this information. "Well then," he says. "Not that talking to you wasn't a truly _illuminating _experience," he continues sarcastically, "but I must go. There is research to be done."

Harry suggests, "Maybe Hermione could help."

As Malfoy fades from Harry's kitchen, taking the blue light with him, he scoffs. "I wouldn't ask that mudblood to help me wipe my arse, let alone anything of actual importance."

"Don't call her that!" Harry snaps, but it's too late. Malfoy is gone.

Well, maybe not _everything _has changed.

Maybe not everything, but as Harry skips dinner that night to lay on the couch with a cup of tea, stroking his owl's head and staring into space, he knows that his life will not be the same following his discovery of Malfoy's...spirit?...in his kitchen.

He doesn't sleep very well that night, but that's nothing new.

**July 2nd:**

The very next day, the ghost-like form of Draco Malfoy appears again in Harry's study, interrupting the dark-haired wizard as he attempts to respond to a letter from Hermione.

"Ugh, you still haven't cleaned your house?" he demands disgustedly by way of greeting.

"I'm very busy!" Harry snaps. "Can't you see I'm trying to write something?"

Draco smirks and peers over Harry's shoulder to read the letter out loud. "_Dear Hermione," _he says loudly in an arrogant voice, "_Hi." _He breaks off into a cackle. "Is _that _what you're planning to write to your best friend of seven years? You're hopeless, Potter."

Harry scowls and tosses the paper into the fire, where it curls up and burns. He doesn't tell Malfoy that he probably wouldn't have ended up sending it to Hermione anyways-he rarely responds to his friends' post nowadays. It makes him feel guilty, but, well, they don't need him anymore. Ron and Hermione have each other. He's just a third wheel, and a grumpy one at that. "What would you know about having friends, Malfoy?" he asks snidely.

"I shall have you know, Potter, that I had a very wide variety of extremely high-profile, _very wealthy_ friends, hand-picked by Father himself. Much better than your rabble."

Harry scoffs-he's unable to tell if Malfoy was joking or not. That is, before the apparition-spirit-ghost-man cracks a grin and continues on before Harry has a chance to reply. "Not that even the lowest of rats would want to visit you here, Potter. It's dirtier than a pigsty!"

Harry casts a _Scourgify _in a random direction and doesn't care to check where it hit. "There. Happy?"

"Absolutely not," responds Malfoy. "Why, if my father saw this place-"

"I daresay he'd be quite impressed," Harry cuts in. "Much cleaner than his cell in Azkaban, don't you think?"

Malfoy crosses his arms and scowls. "I'm sure Father keeps his cell extremely hygienic, thank you very much."

Harry has to laugh at the mental image of Lucius Malfoy, adorned in prison robes and a pink apron, dusting off his grey-bricked cell wall with a feather duster while merrily humming Celestina Warbeck-Molly Weasley's favorite tunes for cleaning.

"_Anyways_," announces Malfoy loudly and pointedly, "This is _not _what I came here to discuss. I wanted to tell you about my research."

"You're consulting me?" asks Harry, grinning. "How sweet of you to want my input."

Malfoy grimaces, choosing to ignore that particular comment. "I have visited the Malfoy Manor library-which is, of course, full of the most valuable, expensive books, hand-picked by-."

"By Daddy himself, I know."

Crossing his arms, Malfoy continues, "By a team of research specialists, _hired _by Father. None of them were any help of all; this must be a unique situation."

Harry has had encounters with all sorts of dead things-a happy little benefit of being a hero and also a wizard. There were the Hogwarts ghosts, pearly white and translucent, and the inferi, disgusting, clammy, and as dead as could be. Not to mention that one time Harry had _been _dead. That particular incident had been as pleasant as it sounded. But he, too, is stumped. He shrugs helplessly.

"I'll keep working on it, then," says Malfoy. He starts to fade. "Oops, guess I'm out of time. Thank goodness, I get to escape seeing _you _any longer."

"It's my house," Harry points out just as the soul of Draco Malfoy winks out of existence.

For some reason, he's sad that night. Sadder than usual, that is. So, like any self-respecting wizard of his caliber would do, Harry downs an obscene amount of firewhiskey in an attempt to self-medicate. It works, kind of, except he's always been a bit of a teary drunk. So he cries silently as he drunkenly spells his dirty house clean.

As he washes all his dirty dishes the muggle way, Harry thinks about Katie Bell, who is as dead as can be. He remembers how Draco had accidentally cursed her, almost resulting in her death, and can't seem to get over how devastating that still feels: she'd just been a kid. A lovely young lady who'd just wanted a shopping trip with her friends and gotten cursed for the effort. Who'd loved Quidditch, and had excellent marks in all her classes, and was a friendly, kind person to just _be with_. She'd survived Draco's attack, but not the war.

Even more heartbreaking though, for reasons indeterminable to an inebriated Harry, is Draco's side of that story. Because now he knows what happened, in its entirety, and can do nothing but remember the way Draco had cried in that bathroom, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. _He must have felt so guilty,_ Harry realises, and guilt is a feeling the Boy Who Lived is intimately acquainted with.

Draco, too, had been a kid, desperately trying to protect his family and going about it in all the wrong ways. He was rude and arrogant, but always dressed to impress. He'd had great marks, and wasn't afraid to flaunt them, but they'd ended up useless-for he would also die in the struggle for freedom and would never get the high-profile job he would have landed (probably with the help of his father) if he'd only survived.

Unbidden, Harry's thoughts drift towards Narcissa Malfoy. How heartbroken she must feel-her only son, the light of her life, dead, and her husband rotting in a prison on the sea. Suddenly, he wants to talk to her; but he's drunk and even drunk Harry knows that would be a terrible idea.

He spells his sofa clean and vanishes all the trash. He enchants a broom to sweep the floors. He levitates his clothing into the muggle washing machine. And when all that's done he passes out on the sofa, and dreams of something blurry he has trouble recalling in the morning.

**July 3rd:**

Hermione sends him another worried letter, but Harry can't be bothered to reply except for a quick reassurance that he's doing great-though the pounding in his head says otherwise. He has a wicked hangover, which Malfoy will definitely think is the funniest thing in the world when he appears.

Sure enough, when the spirit of Draco Malfoy appears in his kitchen to see Harry sitting at the dining table with his head on his placemat, he cackles evilly. "Let me guess," he teases, "you're hungover. Had to get drunk to deal with all that terrible cleaning, right?"

When Harry lifts his head to glare at Malfoy, the ghost-like man falls into a new fit of mirth. "Oh, Merlin, I was right! You _are _hungover! This is priceless!"

"Sod off, Malfoy," Harry says. It's as eloquent as he can manage in his current state.

"Just _imagine _if the press found out! I can just picture the headlines: _THE CHOSEN ONE, CHOOSING ALCOHOL? Read all about the Boy Who Lived's drinking problem!"_

"Shut _up, _Malfoy!"

The blue glow emanating from Malfoy's form makes the freshly-swept floors gleam. The spirit notices this appreciatively. "You really did a thorough job, didn't you?" he admires. "I didn't think you had it in you!"

"Of course I had it in me," Harry says scornfully. "I just have better things to do than worry about cleaning all the time." _Unlike some people, _he adds silently.

Malfoy nods seriously. "Like your friends! No, wait, you don't talk to them anymore. Your job...oh, I forgot...you don't have a job. Maybe your-oh, right, I remember now, you do nothing anymore but sit around feeling sorry for yourself!"

"Shut up," groans Harry again. He still has a headache, and Malfoy's criticism of his pathetic life is not helping matters in the slightest. "My life is amazing and fulfilling."

"Definitely," replies Draco sarcastically. "For sure."

Harry flips him the bird and, to change the subject, asks, "Have you found anything else out about your, uh, situation?"

Malfoy grimaces. "No. Seems no one's ever heard of this happening before. Although, I've only been able to contact people through writing, as it seems only you can see and hear me. Just my luck, right? I'm doomed to spend my entire afterlife with a moping, unemployed, unmotivated-"

Before Harry can find out just what else he is, he says, "As if I've got it much better. Haunted by the ghost of a snobby ponce. Joy." Casually, he asks, "How about a cup of tea? Can you, like, consume things?"

Far from cheered by the offer, Draco mournfully moans, "I would give _anything _for a cup of tea! It's been a year since I've eaten or drank anything!" Sadly, he informs Harry, "I tried yesterday. I've never known such disappointment."

"You don't need to eat," Harry points out, cracking a grin for the first time that morning.

"Doesn't mean I don't want to!" complains the spirit. "You're so unsympathetic."

Harry laughs and mockingly coos, "Aww, poor widdle Malfoy! Does widdle Malfoy need a huggy-wuggy to make him feel better?"

Malfoy, who dodges with the expression of utmost nauseation, crosses his arms in annoyance. "_Now_ you just sound like my mother," he grumbles.

This sparks a thought for Harry. "Oh yeah," he says, "your mother. Last night, I was wondering, have you been to visit her? I bet she'd like to see you."

Draco sadly turns his head away. "I tried," he explains quietly. "She couldn't see or hear me."

"Oh," says Harry softly, sadly. "I'm sorry."

Suddenly, Draco's gray eyes light up with something akin to hope. "But you could visit her!" he suggests. "She'd love to see you, of course, and you could tell her I'm still here! Sort of. Could you do that?"

Harry, who has not left the house but for a grocery run in a very long time, is reluctant to visit a woman who, last time he saw her, was serving the man whose life was devoted to murdering Harry. "I don't know…" he says uncomfortably.

"Oh, come on," wheedles Draco. "Please? Pretty please?"

And because, when looking at the ghost, Harry feels something in his heart wrench, he says, "I guess."

The beaming smile Draco gives him does nothing to quell the butterflies in his stomach.

**July 4th:**

Harry knocks on the door to Malfoy Manor, anxiety curling in his stomach. Despite what Draco has assured him, he's unsure if Narcissa Malfoy will actually be pleased to see him. In fact, he should probably just leave. Yeah. That's a good idea-

The door opens.

In front of Harry stands a tall, blonde woman wearing elegant robes and a tired frown that melts away when she sees him. "Harry Potter," she says, "whatever do I owe the honor?"

Harry opens his mouth to respond, but Draco's mother is too quick. "Oh, where are my manners?" she laments, opening the door wider. "Do come in, please! I'll prepare some tea." When Harry hesitates, she all but pulls him into the manor. "Well, come on, then!"

Harry wordlessly follows her into the grand mansion, reminded inexplicably of Molly Weasley by her attitude. The manor is quite different from the Burrow, though-it looks every bit as impressive as it had once been, and equally as uninviting. Everything is spotlessly clean, including the doubtlessly expensive paintings and artifacts that are displayed proudly on the walls. The carpet, intricately patterned, looks to be of more value than Harry's Gringotts vault. Even the curtains on the wide windows scream of wealth.

But the room Narcissa leads him towards is quite unlike the rest of the manor. It's a small little kitchen with baby blue walls and a honey-colored wooden floor. Though all of the appliances look clean and up to date, this room shares not even a hint of the rest of the house's wealth. In the center of the room is a dining table of dark wood, where Narcissa offers Harry a seat. He accepts.

Nobody says a word until Narcissa places a white mug full of steaming hot tea in front of him and, sitting down, takes one for herself. Awkwardly, Harry begins, "Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Malfoy."

She waves him off. "I think the Savior of the Wizarding World has earned the right to call me Narcissa, don't you think?"

Harry is surprised, but tries to cover it as he says, "Oh, of course. Narcissa." He takes a sip of piping hot tea and, fortified, says, "I came by to tell you something rather...important. But first, I'd like to know, well, how are you doing? I know it must be…" he trails off.

Narcissa sighs, but gives him a little smile. "I manage," she assures him. "I've been gardening, lately. It's rather therapeutic."

"Good, good," Harry says gracelessly. He's never known how to talk to this woman, and now is no exception. Though, he thinks, she is acting much friendlier than he'd expected. That's a small blessing, for sure.

Draco's mother continues, "It's been rather difficult without Lucius and Draco, but...well, we all must learn to move on. I'm trying to, at least. I visit my husband once a month, you know. They've destroyed all the Azkaban dementors."

"Really?" asks Harry, rather shocked. He supposes a development like this would have been in the Daily Prophet, but, well, he never keeps up on the news nowadays. He'll have to fix that, he supposes.

"Oh, yes," she says. "Rather a good thing, I should think. Lucius has been doing much better since then."

"That's great," Harry finds himself replying. He doesn't know whether he _actually _thinks this development is nice or not, but he realises in time that it would be imprudent to insults this woman's husband in her own home. "But, well, speaking of Draco and moving on…"

He explains the situation-or what he knows of it, at least, to Narcissa, and to say the least, she is shocked.

"Oh dear," whispers the proud witch. Harry is terrified to notice tears in her eyes-he's never known how to deal with crying witches! What should he do? He looks around desperately for a solution, but finds nothing.

"He tried to visit you, the other day," Harry tells her awkwardly. "But, he says you couldn't see him. I don't know why."

Narcissa wipes her eyes, lets out a tiny, dignified sob, and breathes, "Oh, Harry. You can't imagine the happiness you've given me...that my son hasn't really left me at all...excuse me for a minute."

She walks quickly out of the room, not bothering to close the door behind her. Her footsteps echo loudly in the empty halls of Malfoy Manor, but she isn't gone long. And when she returns, she bears a huge bouquet of flowers Harry can't identify.

But he remembers them-the long forgotten memory is of Draco in his fourth year, one of these very flowers pinned on the lapel of his dress robes the day of the Yule Ball. It fills Harry with a big, swelling emotion he can't identify.

Narcissa hands him the bundle. "I grew these in my garden," she explains. "Take them home. And tell Draco where they're from, next time he visits. He'll understand." She's not crying anymore, Harry notices with relief.

He takes the bundle from her outstretched hands and cradles it close to his chest. "I will," he tells her. "Thank you."

He's not just thanking her for the flowers.

"And thank _you, _Harry Potter," Narcissa tells him.

Harry puts the flowers in a vase on his kitchen table as soon as he gets home. They are beautiful.

Harry remembers that night-more specifically, he remembers the Yule Ball as he sits on his couch and strokes the head of his sleeping owl. He looks around at his too-clean room, into his too-clean mirror, and glares at himself. Because the eighteen year old with dark circles under his eyes and too many scars is _not _the same person as that boy who'd danced with Parvati Patil at the Yule Ball, is not the same boy who'd worn those bottle-green dress robes selected lovingly by the woman he loves as a mother, and right now, he hates himself for it.

Harry is full of guilt. Unable to leave the house except for short expeditions to the grocery store and, apparently, Malfoy Manor. He has seen too many friends, loved ones die. Everything has changed.

Well, Harry resolves, it'll have to change again. He'll change. He'll try to be better.

He doesn't know how, exactly, but he'll manage it.

**July 5th:**

When, the next day, Draco discovers the flowers perched prettily upon Harry's table, he can't help but hope that the ghost-like spirit will like them. Harry doesn't know why he suddenly wants to impress Draco, but he chalks it up to six years of feeling inferior and swipes away the feelings before he has time to dwell on them.

"They're from your mother," Harry explains needlessly. It's clear, from the look in Draco's eyes, that he already knows exactly where Harry got them. "She said you'd understand."

Draco, wordlessly, reaches out and picks one flower out of the bundle. The blue glow emanating from his form turns the white petals bluish-silver, and if possible, it looks even more beautiful. The spirit stares at the flower in wonder.

"These were always Mother's favorite," breathes Draco after a long moment. He appears emotional, though he refrains from crying, which Harry is infinitely grateful for.

"I remember you had one in fourth year," Harry responds.

"The Yule Ball," Draco says quietly. He quirks a small, grateful smile in Harry's direction. He can feel his heart melting. It's impossible to do anything but return the grin.

The sight is, somehow, devastating. Draco looks, of course, flawlessly handsome in his fancy, expensive robes. His expression is more open than anything Harry has ever seen from him-it makes something inside him ache. After a minute, Draco puts the flower back in the vase.

"Do you think I could owl her?" asks Draco after a minute.

"What, your mother?" Harry asks.

Draco scoffs. "No, Professor Trelawney. _Of course my mother!"_

"Oh," says Harry, who feels a little resentful that Draco thought of the owl idea before Harry. "I mean, why not? I doubt Roberta will be able to see you, but I could just give her the letter for you."

As they walk down the hall to Harry's study, Draco asks, "You named your owl _Roberta? _Why _ever _would you condemn her to such a fate?"

"_I _didn't name her," explains Harry as though it should be obvious. "She was already called that when I got her. I tried renaming her, but she already knew Roberta, so that was just easier."

In fact, when the owl hears her name, she swoops out into the hallway and onto Harry's shoulder. "Hello, Berta," greets Harry, scratching the barn owl beneath her chin.

Draco snickers, "And of all the nicknames that could be derived from Roberta-"

"She seemed like a Berta," Harry says, grinning. "Look at her! Doesn't she look like a Berta?"

Draco examines the bird and says dryly, "Such an inelegant type of bird, I suppose she does deserve an inelegant name."

They reach the study, where Harry pulls out a chair for Malfoy at his desk and hands him a quill and a piece of parchment. "Berta is extremely elegant," retorts Harry. "She and I will be elsewhere, avoiding you, while you write your letter. Call me when you're done."

As Harry walks away with his bird in tow, (wondering along the way why he really doesn't want to leave Malfoy) he realises that he, too, has a few letters to write. Most notably, to Hermione and Ron. McGonagall, too, but he hasn't quite decided whether or not he wants the job, so that one can wait.

In the kitchen, he sits down at the table and begins,

_Dear Hermione and Ron,_

_I'm very sorry I haven't been contacting you lately. At first I felt too guilty after all that had happened, and I needed some time to think about things. I know that's no excuse for basically ignoring you two, but, well, it's the truth._

_I think I'm ready now, though. Something strange has been happening lately and, though it's very odd and hard to explain, I think it's been changing me for the better. Maybe if you would like to come for tea some time this week, I could explain?_

_Once again, I apologize. Things were hard for me after the war, and well, I won't lie and say they're easy now. But it's getting better. And I'd like to see you._

_Sincerely, Harry_

He knows its inadequate after all these months of minimal contact, but it's all he can really put into a letter. Harry hopes desperately that they'll forgive him and come over, because he's starting to realise that all this time spent on his own could have been part of the problem.

Just then, as he's about to start a pot of tea, Malfoy saunters into the kitchen with a rolled up parchment in hand. He tosses it to Harry, who catches it easily-his seeker reflexes are as strong as ever, he is pleased to note.

"There," says Malfoy. With a doubtful glance at Roberta, who is busy chasing a moth across the room, crashing into lamps and curtains, he asks, "Are you sure we can trust this absolute _mess _of an owl with such an important letter?"

Harry is sure that, had Berta been able to see and hear Draco, she would be very offended. "Of course! Berta is the best of the best," he proclaims as the owl flies right into the window with an alarming smack.

"Right." Malfoy's hands are on his hips; he looks very disbelieving.

"Relax," Harry says, holding out an arm for the owl to perch on. She lands on Harry's hand after a great deal of loud wing flapping, and narrowly manages to avoid falling right off again. Malfoy raises a judgemental eyebrow but says nothing.

Harry attaches the two letters to Berta's legs and tells the owl where to go. She's out the window (which Harry opens just in time to avert another crisis) in no time, soaring through the sky like a little brown blur.

"Seriously," says Malfoy a moment later. He's beginning to fade. "That owl had better know what she's doing…"

**July Sixth:**

The time has once again come for Harry to venture out into the world for groceries-an expedition that Harry used to dread like he thought Voldemort would ambush him in the produce aisle. Now, though, while he's still somewhat reluctant, he thinks the fresh air might do him some good. His little muggle neighborhood is beautiful during the summer-full of green trees, lush grass, and chirping birds-and the muggle market is close enough that, if Harry decides to, he could walk there.

And for the first time in a long time, he does.

When he gets to the market, it's bustling and busy with families shopping. Harry, with his hands in his pockets, has to take a deep breath to fortify himself before going in. It's been a long while since he's been around so many people, and while he knows the chances of getting recognized here in this tiny village are pretty slim, it's still nerve racking as he grabs a shopping cart and heads in.

Harry grabs some tea that he's pretty sure Hermione likes, some biscuits (he could bake them himself, if he really wanted to, but he doesn't) and a whole array of canned soups, which make up a large percentage of his daily diet. He also makes sure to get some milk, eggs, and cereal for breakfast, some bread and cheese and meat for sandwiches, and some other items from his list. He doesn't really eat a lot these days, so these rations should hold him over for a while.

By the time he's done shopping and has just finished checking out, Harry hasn't been recognized once and is starting to feel pretty confident that he's safe.

Wrong.

An eleven-year-old boy runs up to him, dragging his mother along by the arm. She looks harried-her unoccupied arm holds a small, wailing baby, her hair is askew, and her glasses look ready to fall off. "Zachary, I _told _you not to-"

"Are you Harry Potter?" demands the kid who is apparently named Zachary.

Harry, who has never been good at things like this, rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans and says, "Er, yeah."

"Wow!" says the kid. "And-it's all true? What you did?"

He's grateful that they can't really go into more detail in a shop full of Muggles as he responds, "Yep." For lack of anything else to say, he asks, "Are you, uh, starting school this year?"

Zachary beams at him and nods vigorously. "Yup!" He rolls his eyes and says, directed somewhat at his mother, "It took a _long _time to convince Mum to let me go. _First _she didn't believe in magic, _then _she was all, 'oh, but what if it's dangerous!' But _then_ she read about how you saved the school, and all those people, and she _finally _agreed."

The kid's mum looks a little nervous as she looks around, making sure nobody overhears their conversation. "Not in public, Zach, let's go." To Harry she says, "I'm so sorry to bother you. I know he can come across as quite talkative, sometimes rude…"

Harry is surprised when he realises that, actually, this encounter hasn't annoyed him in the slightest. "It was no trouble," he tells the woman. Then he tells the boy, "It was nice to meet you, Zach. Good luck at school."

Zach beams, the mother smiles gratefully, and then the little family walks away. But Harry stands there for a minute, realising. Realising that kids like Zach, muggleborns who are just _so excited _to have magic, are exactly who he fought the war for.

Zach reminds him of Colin Creevey, a little bit. Harry might be a little biased, but he bets the kid is destined for Gryffindor.

Harry packs away all his groceries in the cupboards, which have recently been liberated from sheets of spiderwebs, and makes a cup of tea. He waits for Draco to show up, but he doesn't. He waits for Berta to show up, but she, too, is nowhere to be seen. He feels lonely, which is nothing new, but for the first time in a long time, he wishes he wasn't.

**July 9th:**

When Roberta arrives back with the post a few days later, Harry is slowly eating a very small bowl of oatmeal and waiting for Malfoy (not that he'd ever admit that that's what he's doing). "Berta!" he greets, more than a little happy to see his owl friend again. She drops two letters onto his lap (one tied shut with an elegant blue ribbon and written on pricey parchment), nips him affectionately, crashes into a lampshade, and dives into the study.

Malfoy appears shortly after. "Hello, Potter," he says, almost politely.

"Hello Malfoy." He hands Malfoy the neatly rolled parchment addressed to him then tucks the other in his pocket, then says, "Bit early, isn't it?"

"Yes, well. There is much to be done today."

Harry raises an eyebrow and wishes he'd thought to change into something more fashionable than muggle sweatpants. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"

Malfoy grins conspiratorially. "Research," he tells Harry like it's an important secret. "Come along."

As though the house belongs to him, the blue-glowing apparition (who, despite wearing the same outfit he's donned the entire time he's existed, looks extra nice today) leads Harry to the study. As they walk, he rants, "I have read every book on death in the Malfoy library. I have scoured _both _Hogwarts libraries, as well as other respectable wizarding libraries. I even made use of the _muggle internet! _Yet I have found nothing! Not one bloody paragraph! If we are going to solve this problem, we will have to solve it ourselves!"

Harry finds the thought of Malfoy, sitting hunched over a muggle computer, furiously clicking the mouse and demanding assistance from some poor muggle, unbearably funny. He snorts, "_You _used a _computer?"_

Malfoy says knowledgeably, "I'm pretty sure it's called a _Comtuper, _Potter."

"That is completely wrong, Malfoy." They reach the study, and Harry claps his hands together determinedly. "Alright, then, let's research."

And research, they do. Harry conjures a second chair for his guest, they clear his desk (Malfoy takes great joy in swiping everything off it with a great sweep of his arm) and they find a muggle notebook and pen to take notes with. They begin by conducting these experiments:

What items can Malfoy touch?

Answer: Every inanimate except food and plants.

Can Malfoy touch people?

Answer: No.

Can Malfoy touch animals?

Answer: Maybe? They hadn't been able to locate Roberta to conduct the experiment.

Can Malfoy eat or drink anything?

Answer: No, to Draco's extreme disappointment. The tea had fallen right through his mouth to the floor. Likewise with the biscuits.

Can Malfoy remove his ghostly clothes?

Answer: Though Harry had turned around for this portion of the research, he hadn't needed to. Malfoy had only gotten as far as untying his ghostly, highly expensive tie before the garment had poofed out of existence. Harry thought it was hilarious ("Oh _no! _Now you'll have to sell one of your houses to afford a new one!"), but Malfoy had been decidedly unamused.

Does Malfoy show up in mirrors or cameras?

Answer: No. Malfoy had despaired, "How will I fix my hair!?"

Through these experiments they conclude that, no, Malfoy is not a ghost. He's also not miraculously alive again. He's not an inferi ("Obviously, Potter.") and he's not an apparition like those summoned by the Resurrection Stone. To put it simply, they still have no clue about what Draco Malfoy is. They've narrowed the options down a little bit, but if anything, their research has only widened the scope of possibilities.

By the time they call it a day, the sun has set on Harry's little muggle town and three pages of notes are filled in Malfoy's neat, almost feminine handwriting.

Oddly, the most illuminating discovery they've made today is that Harry loves watching Malfoy write. The way his hand moves so gracefully, so effortlessly, across the page, forming those small, cursive letters…

**July 11th:**

Roberta is still nowhere to be seen a few days after their initial research session, and to say the least, Harry is concerned. He tries calling for his owl, but to no avail. He searches all the rooms of the house, but finds nothing. He even shakes a tin of owl treats, hoping that'll entice her out of hiding, but the clumsy barn owl remains hidden. When Malfoy appears in his kitchen, ready for a new day of experimentation, Harry is so concerned, his palms are sweaty and his stomach is roiling.

Malfoy, to Harry's great outrage, just laughs at his misfortune. "Try a tracking spell, you useless lump."

"How dare you suggest that I-that I...that I should use a tracking spell. Of course. Good idea." Harry, cheeks red from embarrassment, murmurs the incantation and waves his wand. Then, despite knowing it won't help, he softly calls, "Roberta!"

Within seconds, Malfoy spots and points out a blue glow emanating from the old linen cabinet. It's where Harry keeps all the towels and blankets that are too old to really use but feels too guilty to throw away. He opens the door fully prepared to give Roberta the telling off of her lifetime.

"You daft, bird, I can't _believe _you'd just go off and hide like that, do you even know how worried I was? How worried _Malfoy _was? You are in a lot of trouble, young lady, I can tell you that much-"

"Potter, look." Malfoy interrupts, pointing to Roberta.

"Yes, Malfoy, just a moment. I'm busy lecturing my owl right now."

"No, Potter, _look."_

With a heaving, I'm-sick-of-your-nonsense sigh, Harry turns to look where Malfoy has indicated. At first he notices nothing, but then sees that, in the nest the owl has made of old linens, something white and speckled gleams.

"Wha-?" Harry eloquently expresses, reaching a gentle hand into the nest to push Roberta away. The usually kind bird nips him sharply, but not before he catches a glimpse of what she's hiding. There are four little eggs, white with brown speckles, resting beneath Harry's owl.

"Merlin," he breathes, removing his hand from the cabinet. Harry stares at his bird.

Malfoy looks delighted. "Potter, you didn't tell me your bird was married!" he says, looking like Christmas has come early.

"I didn't think she was," Harry manages to croak. "Bloody hell!"

Malfoy frowns playfully. "Unless it was a one-time fling," he suggests, looking scandalized. "Do you think it was?"

"Well, _yeah!" _says Harry, closing the cabinet door to give Roberta and her eggs some privacy. He's still processing. "What, do you think I own another owl and I haven't noticed?"

"Oh dear," Malfoy says anxiously, reminding Harry of Hermione when she's forgotten an assignment. "These chicks can't grow up without a father!" He turns to Harry. "That settles it. You'll need to get another owl."

Harry stares at him incredulously and gesticulates wildly with his hands. "We can't get another owl!" he sputters, shocked that he even needs to make this argument. "I'm about to have _four more, _in case you haven't noticed! How many letters do you think I'll need to send?"

"Four more owls," Malfoy repeats, his eyes hard. His hands rest firmly on his hips, and he stands in front of Harry, almost as if to tell him the only way he'll be leaving this house is to go get a father for these owl chicks. "Four more owls that are going to grow up fatherless! You wouldn't wish that on anyone, would you?"

Harry adopts a stance that he hopes gets the point across to Malfoy that five owls is by far enough. "Yes, well," he says, struggling to come up with a new tactic once it's clear the _too many owls _argument isn't enough, "Don't you think Berta would like to choose the father of her children herself? She can't do that right now. She can't leave her eggs."

Malfoy frowns for a minute, as he's obviously taking the wellbeing of the chicks and their mother very seriously. "We'll just have to bring the options to her. Get a bunch of male owls, bring them here, and let Roberta choose."

Harry is reduced to the single point of, "But what if she's gay? Maybe she doesn't _want _to be with a male owl."

Malfoy nods like he's glad Harry is being this considerate. "True. We'll bring males _and _females."

Just like that, Harry is doomed to a six-owl household.

When Malfoy disappears that night, promising to be back soon to help him with the selection process, Harry lies down on the couch, covered by a small afghan and gripping a mug of vodka and tea with white fingers, and wishes someone had gone through all this effort to find a father for _him. _

Sirius had been like a father, then he'd died. Remus had been more like an uncle (though nothing at all like Vernon Dursley), but he had died, too. And Arthur Weasley had been like a dad, but Harry hasn't owled him in months.

He wonders why. Why hasn't he owled Arthur?

The alcohol coursing through his veins allows him to admit to something he would never even let himself _think _of while sober-it's because he's ashamed. He's ashamed that, while Ron and Hermione are successful and married and have everything together, Harry is an unemployed shut-in who eats too little and sleeps too little and contacts no one. He must be such a disappointment.

Harry _hates _disappointing people.

He glances to the linen cabinet, which is lit by moonlight streaming in through the window, and realizes that he could never disappoint these owl chicks. So yes, he will adopt a sixth owl, and he will do his best for all the tiny owls when they are born, and he will be the best bloody owl grandfather there has ever been.

Maybe it also has a little bit to do with Malfoy, too, but Harry brushes away that thought.


	2. Chapter 2

**July 12th:**

The day before Roberta's scheduled speed-dating session, Ron and Hermione come over for tea.

Harry doesn't need to worry about cleaning, because his cottage is still, thankfully, spotless. But he makes sure the nice teacups are available for his guests and is sure to put on an outfit Hermione would approve of-namely, it is not noticeably dirty and the sweater only has one or two holes, which are in unobtrusive locations.

When Harry hears knocking on the door, he wipes his sweaty palms off on his pants and takes a deep breath before greeting his friends.

"Hey, Harry!" Ron exclaims as he walks in. Harry gives him a grin, but is unable to reply because Hermione has beaten him to it.

"Yes, _hello, _Harry," she responds in a somewhat shrill voice. "How nice of you to finally contact us!"

Harry scratches the back of his neck apologetically and directs them to the living room. "Er, have a seat?"

Ron plops down onto the sofa as if he owns it, sprawling comfortably on the cushions, and Hermione perches primly on the edge. She is looking critically around the room as if she's some sort of health inspector searching for infractions in the law of hygiene. Luckily, after his recent bout of cleaning, Harry doesn't think she'll find any.

"Tea?" he offers.

"Yes, thanks," Hermione accepts politely. Harry cringes; this confirms it. He has totally, absolutely, completely offended Hermione and will have to work his arse off to earn forgiveness. He knows he deserves it, but, well. At least Ron doesn't seem too upset.

He heads into the kitchen to start the kettle, and as he sets it on the stove, hears Ron muttering something to Hermione. He sounds impressed. "-much cleaner than last time," he tells her. "Remember?"

"I'd never seen so many different bugs in one place before," she responds.

"And the _spiders_." Ron shudders.

When Harry arrives back with the tea, their conversation ceases. "Thanks, mate," says Ron. Hermione shoots him a glare whose purpose is clear-Ron has instructions not to be too nice to Harry until he's redeemed himself. Harry hides a grin in his mug.

"So?" prompts Hermione when a minute has passed with no sound but the quiet sipping of tea.

"Uh, yeah," begins Harry. He's glad Malfoy isn't around to see this-the poncy git would probably find his social ineptitude hilarious. "Look, guys, I'm really sorry I haven't been responding to your owls in the past few months. It's been...it's been tough. Since the war, I mean. I just kept feeling guilty about," he struggles to find an appropriate way to explain, "well, about everything, really. So many people died, and, and some of them I killed myself. And Hogwarts will never be the same, and-"

Hermione reaches out a hand to place on his. Harry has clearly overestimated her fury, as it seems she is forgiving him already. That's Hermione-she can never stay mad at a friend (though Ron is a different story). "Oh, Harry, it's not your fault!"

"Yeah, mate, why didn't you tell us?" Ron asks, looking somewhat stricken. "We could have helped you."

Harry cringes at what he's about to say next. Because seeing them, his two closest friends, sitting before him and forgiving him in minutes for months of silence, he knows he has been a giant idiot. "I," he grimaces, "didn't want to burden you. You were so happy together, you know?"

Now it's Hermione's turn to look stricken. "Oh, Harry, we didn't know! We didn't mean to rub our happiness in your nose, right Ron?"

"Right!"

Harry is quick to assure them, "It wasn't your fault. I just needed some time to realize it. What is that thing they say? Absence-"

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," Hermione recites promptly.

"Yes, that!" Harry confirms. "And now, my heart is very fond."

This having appeased Hermione, Harry turns to Ron. "We good, mate?" he asks.

"'Course!" Ron says easily. "Though, do you know who you've forgotten to apologize to?"

"Who?" Harry groans.

Ron grins evilly, looking uncannily like Fred or George. "Mum. If you miss Sunday dinner one more time, mate, I don't know _what _will happen."

Harry facepalms. "Oh, God, how am I even going to apologize? She'll crucify me!"

"Well, you know Mum," Ron tells him, "just gotta butter her up first. Give her a gift, or something."

Hermione looks, impressed, at her boyfriend. "Ronald, that was actually a very good idea!" she says.

Ron puffs up his chest and tries not to look too happy. Harry laughs at his expense, and yeah, he knows they'll be okay. He's forgiven.

Heart swelling with love for his two oldest friends, he is startled when Hermione asks, "Have you seen Hogwarts yet?"

"Well, er, yeah," Harry says, unsure of the question's purpose. "I mean, I did go to school there for, like, six years. Reckon I saw it once or twice."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "I meant since the repairs. They really fixed the place up-you should go visit!"

Ron looks enthusiastic. "You should! I don't know how we'll live without it, now we don't have any reason to keep going. I mean, I thought about applying to be the flight instructor when Madam Hooch retires, but really, I'd prefer auror work-"

"About that, actually." Harry interrupts. He stands up and heads down the hallway to the study, calling over his shoulder, "Be right back!"

He quickly locates what he's looking for-it rests neatly underneath the Malfoy research notebook-and heads back into the living room, where Hermione and Ron are holding hands. They spring apart when they see Harry re-enter, but he just laughs. "It's okay," he assures them. "I don't mind."

Hermione smiles sheepishly and grabs Ron's hand again.

"Anyway, look at this," Harry says. He hands them the letter he's retrieved from the study.

Hermione reads it at almost the speed of light and then gasps with wide eyes. "Defense professor? Oh, Harry, that's wonderful!"

"Blimey, mate!" enthuses Ron. "That'll be wicked! You've accepted, right?"

"Er," says Harry hesitantly.

Hermione looks horrified, her eyes wide and appalled_. "You turned it down? _Why on Earth would you do such a thing!?"

Harry is quick to reassure her, "I haven't turned it down. I just haven't accepted it yet."

Hermione frowns, and Ron helpfully informs him, "It isn't cursed anymore, though!"

"I know, I know," Harry groans, waving a hand dismissively. "I just...I _don't _know. It's where so many people died. I don't think I could-"

Of course, Hermione has an idea. "Why don't you visit? Then you could see if it makes you feel awful, and if it does, you don't need to accept the job." Her eyes turn earnest. "But I really, _really _think you should say yes, Harry. It's such a wonderful opportunity, and you could help so many children! There couldn't possibly be a better defense professor than you!"

"Yeah, remember the DA?" asks Ron enthusiastically. "You were brilliant! I reckon you'd do a great job!"

Hermione nods approvingly at him. "And you'd have a friend there," she says convincingly. "Neville teaches Herbology, remember?'

"Yeah, yeah," Harry says. "I'll visit, and I'll think about it. But I'm not saying yes to anything right away, got it?"

Hermione smiles at him and puts a hand on his. "That's all we're asking for, Harry. Just consider it."

Ron asks, "So, is that what you wanted to tell us about, in the letter? Or is there something else you wanted to mention?"

Harry thinks about mentioning Draco, but decides against it. Guilty as keeping secrets makes him feel, he wants to keep this secret to himself for as long as possible. Not only because Hermione would insist upon taking over their research and would inevitably outdo all of Harry's best efforts, but also because if he explained about the ghost of Draco Malfoy, he would also have to explain about his _feelings _for Draco Malfoy. Which he does not fancy doing, thank you very much.

Then, because the whole thing is rather like giving a moose a muffin, if he explains that he likes Draco, Hermione would insist upon holding a lengthy discussion on the topic. This would inevitably lead to talking about how Draco died, which Harry would rather not do. No, sir. That is a topic best left alone, and he's sure Malfoy would agree.

Besides. While he's confident that Ron and Hermione are the best friends in the world, he thinks that telling them he's interested in the dead version of one of their bitterest enemies would probably stretch the capacity of their kindness.

No, Harry decides that the _situation _is best left unmentioned.

Ron and Hermione leave that afternoon, Ron with strict instructions not to tell Molly about the gift Harry intends to bring her next Sunday, and Harry goes to sleep that night with a heart lighter than he can remember it being in a very long time.

**July 13th:**

The day Harry has been dreading is upon him: Roberta's search for the perfect partner is scheduled to commence in-he checks his watch-twelve minutes. Seven hundred and twenty short seconds until his life dissolves, once more, into utter chaos.

Draco pops in four minutes early, which makes Harry's heart leap with what he tells himself is horror. "You're early," he criticizes.

"My mother always said, 'early is on time, on time is late, and late is disowned,'" the apparition responds primly, smiling innocently at Harry.

"Whatever. Have you owled Eeylops?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Of course I have! I, for one, am highly conscientious about my responsibilities."

Harry scowls and retorts, "So am I, you git. Look."

Harry directs Malfoy to Roberta's linen closet, which he opens very gently so as not to disturb the mother owl. She glares at him suspiciously, but permits him to show Malfoy the renovations he's made to the place.

Harry has magically enlarged the space to make room not only for Roberta's partner, but for the four chicks who he predicts will grow very quickly. There are some very nice perches for the owls to relax on, as well as a water bowl. The door sports a newly enchanted latch which will allow the closet's owl population to come and go as they please. He's also added an air-freshening charm. All in all, the place looks like a perfect owl heaven. He brags, "I guess you could say I'm sometimes responsible."

Malfoy smirks and says, "Just wait. I will out-responsibility you yet!"

"Well, you can always try. Now, if you don't mind, I have an appointment at Eeylops Owl Emporium. It would be irresponsible to be late." Harry waits long enough to see Malfoy's arms cross irritably, then he disapparates with a grin.

He appears in a dark alcove in Muggle London, which is just sheltered enough that no passers-by will have seen him appear. Harry hasn't gone over the top trying to make himself unrecognizable, but he has transfigured his glasses so they're unlike his iconic spectacles and arranged his fringe so that it covers the lightning bolt scar. That's all it usually takes to remain unrecognized.

Eeylops Owl Emporium, located in the center of Diagon Alley, is a big, dark, pungent-smelling store with a high ceiling and lots of windows. Harry can hear the owls hooting even from outside, and the sound only amplifies as he opens the door and walks in.

The place is full of owls of all different colors, types, and sizes. His heart clenches painfully as he sees a snowy white owl almost as regal as Hedwig, but he has to smile when he notices a tiny owl like Pig fluttering around, crashing into things just like Roberta. In the center of the store is a big, tall, leafless tree that almost reaches the ceiling. On its many branches perch hundreds of owls.

He walks to the counter, where a tall, bearded, old man sits. "I'm here to pick up an order," Harry tells him.

"Mr. Potter?" asks the man, looking at a piece of parchment through a pair of rectangular spectacles.

Harry nods.

"Ah, yes," says the man. Harry is greatly relieved that he doesn't seem to be too starstruck. "Your owls are in the back."

WIth a slow, hobbling gait, the old man leads Harry through the store, under the owl tree, to a door in the back wall. He uses a big, copper key to open it.

In the small, bright room, there are ten different perches and an owl relaxing on each. A proud-looking eagle owl sits stiffly and observes Harry condescendingly, while two barn owls that remind Harry of Roberta share a perch to preen. There are no snowy owls. Harry doesn't know how to feel about that.

"So, just to be clear," Harry says, "I'm only buying one. I just need to test out the others."

The man nods. "We do that a lot here at Eeylops." Handing Harry a piece of parchment and a quill, he points to a line on the paper and instructs, "Sign here, please."

Harry obeys, and then listens to all the man's instructions on proper owl care, nodding when it's necessary and not paying attention to much else. When the briefing is done, the man opens a window and Harry hands each of the owls a blank piece of parchment with his address on them. "Do you all know where to deliver these?" he asks the owls.

Like little soldiers, they dutifully nod.

"Good. I'd like you to stay at that house until I've given you permission to come back here. Got it?"

The owls coo, which Harry takes as a yes.

"Alright," he tells the birds. "There's a very pretty owl named Roberta over there you need to impress, so make sure you're on your best behavior. You may go."

The owls soar one-by-one out the window, and Harry pays the man a deposit for each one before apparating back home. He cringes at how empty his pockets feel once all the Galleons are gone, but as long as he returns nine of the owls safe and sound, he'll get his money back. Hopefully.

Back at home, Draco has set up the hallway with ten perches and a water dish. He smirks at Harry when he arrives, gesturing towards the room with a flourish. "It's like a five star owl resort in here," he brags. "I don't see why you don't just keep all ten."

Harry glares. "Don't push it."

Draco shrugs with a grin.

They'll have to wait a bit for the owls to arrive, so Harry prepares a kettle of tea. He pours a steaming cup for himself and, to tease him, sets out a mugfull for Draco, too. He also lays out a platter of biscuits and offers innocently, "Help yourself, Draco! They're quite delicious."

Draco grins. "I think I will!" He picks up his mug, opens his mouth, and dumps all of the tea in. It falls right through his form to the floor, where it soaks into Harry's nice rug and creates a fragrant-smelling, unpleasant brown splotch. "Oops!"

Harry can't quite hide his grin as he _Scourgify_'s the mess and tries to glare at Draco. "How dare you? This rug is very special to me!"

Draco grins evilly and reaches teasingly towards the biscuits. "Maybe I'll try one of these, too!" he threatens.

"Don't even think about it."

As Harry sips his strong, milky tea and banters with Draco, he wonders how he ever managed to live without this.

Then he thinks that, for the past year, he wasn't really living anyways.

When Harry has finished his tea, he sets the empty mug down by Draco's and stands up. "The owls should be arriving any moment now," he tells the apparition.

Marching towards the door, Draco proclaims, "I'll wait for them outside."

Harry follows his friend, leaving the two empty mugs behind.

It's a beautiful day outside-the sky is blue, speckled with white, wispy clouds. A pleasant breeze rustles the leaves on the trees. A fluffy-tailed squirrel darts across the one-lane road. Harry grins as he observes, wondering how he's managed to live here for so long without realising how beautiful it is.

They don't have to wait very long-a short five minutes later, ten owls soar through the sky above the treeline, slowing down enough to descend one-by-one onto Harry's porch. "Hello, owls!" he greets when all ten of them have arrived.

Draco points at the regal-looking eagle owl. "I like that one," he says. "Pick him."

"Weren't we going to let Roberta choose?"

"She'll choose him," Draco confidently informs Harry.

Harry doubtfully raises his eyebrows and says nothing, opening the door to allow all the owls in. They swoop through, leaving a trail of feathers in their wake. Harry sighs. He'll have to spend another evening cleaning, it seems.

They direct the owls to the perches, and once everyone is settled down, Draco opens the door to Roberta's linen closet. She glares balefully at Harry, but tilts her head to curiously observe all the other birds lined up in the hallway.

"Alright, Roberta," Harry says. "We know it's hard to be a single parent, so if you want, you can pick one of these owls to help you raise your chicks. You don't have to pick one, though!" he clarifies. "If you don't want any help, we'll just take them back, no problem. Nothing wrong with independence."

Scoffing, Draco puts his hands on his hips and admonishes, "No need to sound so enthusiastic, Potter."

Harry shrugs, and the owl speed-dating begins.

Roberta is quick to reject the two barn owls, and seems quite uninterested in the three females. She spends a while inspecting a handsome tawny owl, but inevitably deems him unsuitable. A wise-looking long eared owl looks eager to be Roberta's friend, but the feeling is not mutual.

To Harry's shock and dismay, Roberta is most interested in the beautiful brown eagle owl. "Roberta, _please _no," begs Harry. He doesn't think he'll be able to bear the _I told you so _from Malfoy if she picks the pretentious eagle owl.

"Roberta, _yes!" _exclaims Draco eagerly. To Harry, he says, "You've got an owl of fine taste, Potter."

Harry leans back against the wall, allowing his head to collide with the drywall with a painful _thunk. _"I can't believe this," he groans.

"I can," gloats Malfoy.

"Roberta," Harry pleads, "Do you really want _that one? _There are plenty of other nice owls out here."

Uncannily resembling Malfoy, Roberta turns up her beak at him and coos happily at her new boyfriend. "Bloody hell," Harry complains as the eagle owl puffs out his chest feathers importantly. "If that owl gets any more full of himself, he'll explode."

"Nothing wrong with a healthy self-esteem," Draco tells him. "We should name him Dionysus."

"I am not naming my owl that," Harry says firmly. "He'd hate it. Watch."

Harry turns to the eagle owl and asks, "How do you feel about the name Dionysus?"

The own hoots approvingly and nods.

"Goddamnit," Harry says. Then, "Stop laughing, Malfoy!"

**July 14th:**

The day after Dionysus becomes a part of Harry's owl family, he decides to send a letter to Hagrid to ask about the proper care of owl chicks. After all, if Harry is going to commit to this, he's going to do it right. In for a knut, in for a galleon, they say.

_Dear Hagrid,_

_My owl Roberta has laid four eggs and is sitting on them in a nest in my linen closet. I intend to keep the chicks, so I am writing to ask for instructions on how to properly raise them._

_Thanks, Harry._

He rolls up the letter and seals it with some Spellotape, making sure to show Dionysus the address. "Do you know where this is?" he asks the owl.

The dark brown eagle owl seems to roll his eyes, as if to tell Harry that _of course _he knows where the address is.

Harry ties hands Dionysus the letter and says, "Alright, off you go, then." The owl soars out the window, right through Draco, who Harry hadn't even noticed standing there.

"Oh, hi, Malfoy," he greets. "Didn't see you there."

"Evidently," the spirit sniffs. "Otherwise I hope you wouldn't have let your owl fly _right through me. _How rude."

Harry grins. "Don't bet on it. Now, are you here to help me clean up all these owl feathers?" He hadn't bothered to clean up last night after yesterday's owl extravaganza, so his house is still decorated in fluffy feathers of all colors.

"As if I'd come here to _clean," _Draco says as if he's above even the mention of household chores. "No. I had an idea for our research."

"Oh yes?" Harry leads Draco into the study, which is already equipped for reading, writing, and testing. He doesn't really use it, nowadays, except for the Draco issue, so his desk is mostly clear and there are two chairs instead of one.

"Yes. I thought we could…" Draco trails off and mutters something unintelligible.

"What was that?" asks Harry.

Draco sighs exasperatedly, runs one hand through his hair, and clarifies, "I thought we could consult Granger."

Harry's eyebrows fly up into his hairline. "Oh really?" he asks, surprised. "What happened to the whole, 'I wouldn't let that mudblood wipe my arse' routine?"

Draco responds, "Ugh. I changed my mind, okay?"

Harry can't stop the cheshire grin that spreads across his face. "What did you say, Malfoy? You might need to repeat that."

Huffing angrily, Draco repeats, "I changed my mind, okay? I was wrong. She's smart. She's our best option."

Pretending to think, Harry strokes his chin. "Well, well," he says. "I think we could arrange that. But there's something you'd need to tell her."

"I know, I know. I'll apologize to her. Please, just firecall her already."

"If that's what you want!" Harry concedes gleefully. He makes his way over to his rarely-used fireplace, shooting an _Incendio _into the hearth and grabbing a pot of floo powder from the mantle.

Harry knows that a few days ago he'd wanted to keep Draco secret, but he's over it. He's falling for Draco, hard. He realizes with a pounding heart that whatever Draco wants, Harry wants. Hermione's help included.

"Ron and Hermione's house!" he commands, sticking his head through the Floo.

Gazing into Hermione's kitchen, he all he can see Crookshanks snoozing by the fireplace. The fat, ugly cat blocks the rest of Harry's view, so he prods him awake and says, "Hi, Crookshanks. Would you go get Hermione for me?"

The cat opens one orange eye and hisses balefully, but stands up and dashes away obediently. Harry reminds himself to bring cat treats next time he visits.

Hermione bustles into the kitchen a moment later, the fluffy cat on her heels. "Oh, hi, Harry!" she greets, beaming. "How are you doing?"

"I'm good," he responds with a smile. "How about you?"

"Oh, I'm fine too," she tells him. "I've just been knitting a sweater for Ron. I know he gets plenty from Molly, but she showed me this great pattern the other day and I was just _dying _to test it out."

Harry grins, hoping that the sweater will be the maroon color Ron hates so much. "Ron'll like that, I think. Are you busy?"

Hermione shakes her head. "Ron's at work, and I just finished my shift. What do you need?"

"Could you come over?" he asks. "I have this...thing. And I don't know what it is. I thought you could take a look at it."

"Absolutely," Hermione agrees. She looks pleased to have been called upon for help-Harry can already see the gears turning in her head as she tries to work out the problem without even knowing what it is. "Want me to come through?"

"Feel free." Harry removes his head from the fireplace, and a moment later, Hermione appears in his kitchen.

She looks around critically, noticing all the feathers scattered throughout the cottage. "Goodness, Harry, did you have an owl party in here, or something?"

"Something like that." He brings Hermione to the living room, where she takes a seat on the comfortable couch (unwittingly sitting right beside where Draco lounges) and notices, with a raised eyebrow, the two empty mugs that rest on the coffee table. She doesn't mention them, however.

"So, what was the issue?" Hermione asks.

Harry takes a deep breath. "This is going to sound odd, but actually, Draco Malfoy is sitting right next to you."

"What?" Hermione looks from right to left but is unable to see Draco, her bushy brown hair swishing around her as she rotates her head. "I thought he died."

Draco rolls his eyes and comments, "Rather slow on the uptake, that one."

Luckily, Hermione can't hear him. Harry explains, "He did. But on the first of this month he appeared in my kitchen, and he's been back almost every day since. I'm the only one who can see or hear him."

To Hermione's credit, she does not look at him like he's gone mental. "Okay," she says slowly, already deep in thought. "So he's not a ghost. Is he like-is it the Stone of Resurrection?"

Harry shakes his head. "I still don't know where that went," he tells her. "Haven't seen it in a year."

Draco's eyes bug out in shock. "You had the Resurrection Stone?" he demands. "It's real?"

"Yes," Harry tells him. "It was in the Golden Snitch Dumbledore left me."

"Are you talking to him?" Hermione asks.

"Yeah," Harry tells her. "But actually, there's something he wanted to tell _you_."

Hermione turns to her left, where she estimates Draco is sitting. Harry doesn't tell her that Draco is actually on her right.

The dead man heaves a dramatic sigh and pulls a quill and parchment from his pocket. He writes in elegant cursive:

_Granger,_

_I am very sorry for how I treated you during our school years. I can see that I was incorrect in my assumptions about Muggleborns and hope that you may forgive me._

Hermione, who had probably seen nothing but a floating piece of paper and a quill writing by itself, takes the letter and scans it. "That's okay, uh, Malfoy," she tells him. "Water under the bridge."

Draco stares at her for a moment, as if unable to believe what he has just heard. "It was that easy?" he demands, waving his hands around in frustration. "Why didn't I do this weeks ago?"

Harry snorts. "He's surprised you forgave him so easily," he tells Hermione.

She smiles and pulls out a muggle notebook from her tiny beaded purse. "Tell me everything you know about the situation," she instructs.

By the time night falls, Hermione has been fully briefed on the issue. She has taken four back-and-front pages of notes, and assures them before she apparates home that she knows a couple books that might help. She'll be back in three days for more research.

Draco leaves soon after Hermione, fading from his kitchen and leaving the house dark.

Harry wonders if he should clean up the owl feathers and mugs, but is too exhausted and elects to leave that for tomorrow.

**July 15th:**

Harry is woken up that morning by a stream of warm sunlight pouring from his window, the sound of sparrows chirping, and the feeling of something tapping his cheek.

He opens one eye, and, unable to make out anything other than a brown blob, groans and grabs his glasses. The feathery form of Dionysus comes into focus, staring condescendingly down at Harry and continuing to tap him lightly with the slip of parchment he holds in his beak.

"Get off," he mumbles at the owl, using one arm to shove him away. Dionysus hoots angrily and flies out of Harry's room, through the hallway, and into Roberta's closet.

The owl having been dealt with, Harry grabs his letter and reads,

_Dear Harry,_

_Great to hear Roberta's having chicks! I always loved owl chicks, though I'll admit baby hippogriffs are a bit more interesting._

_How about you come over one of these days, and I can show you a bit about baby owls. Been too long since I've seen you, and I reckon you'd like to see the castle._

_Love, Hagrid_

Harry rolls up the letter and sets it on his bedside table, smiling. Hagrid's invitation has given him the perfect opportunity not only to learn about owl chicks, but to visit Hogwarts.

He gets out of bed and puts the tea kettle on the stove, inserting some toast in the toaster and grabbing an apple from the bowl on the table. Adding more water to the vase full of Narcissa's flowers, Harry crunches the crisp fruit and waits for his water to boil.

When it does, he pours two cups of tea-one for him, and one for Draco. He doesn't actually know if the spirit will come back today, but if he does, the offering should give him a laugh.

Harry dresses in a clean, hole-less sweater from Molly and a pair of jeans, which will cause Draco a great deal of despair should he decide to appear. The aristocratic dead man despises most muggle clothes, of course, but if there is one clothing article he would curse off the face of the earth, it would be jeans. That's why Harry wears them so often.

Leaving the tea and a note for Draco, Harry apparates to the gates of Hogwarts.

The Hogwarts grounds are as beautiful as ever-the lake shimmers and ripples calmly in the distance, while the leaves of the Forbidden Forest wave lazily in the wind. Birds soar through the sky, cawing happily. The air smells fresh, sharp, and clean.

Harry makes his way to Hagrid's hut with his hands in his pockets, turning his head to observe as he walks. The castle looks _worlds_ better than it did after the war; its smooth gray bricks gleam in the sunlight and the towers rise high into the sky like beacons. It's almost like there was never a war at all.

Hagrid's hut looks cleaner and newer than ever, which probably is because it burned down in the battle and had to be rebuilt. It is surrounded by a vast pumpkin patch, where Buckbeak lazily naps in a patch of warm sunlight.

"Hello, Buckbeak," Harry calls quietly. The handsome gray hippogriff opens a smart yellow eye, and, astonishingly, seems to grin at Harry.

Harry approaches Hagrid's door and knocks nervously.

"Be righ' there," calls a familiar, booming voice. "Get down, Fang! Down!"

Hagrid opens the door, looking the same as he had that day he came to give Harry his letter and whisk him off to Diagon Alley. His beard is long, brown, and all over the place, and his hair fares no better. His rubber boots are the size of small children. His black beetle eyes glint kindly. He beams when he sees Harry.

"Harry!" he exclaims, throwing open the door to invite him in. "Bin hopin' you'd come soon! Come in!"

Harry follows the half-giant into the cozy hut, looking around to observe that, while everything looks new and clean, it is just as he remembers it from his days at Hogwarts. A mammoth tea kettle rests on the stove next to the counter where one giant mug and one small one wait to be filled. A rickety-looking table and chairs are the centerpieces of the kitchen; one of these chairs contains a bloodhound named Fang, who bounds up to Harry to demand pets.

Harry takes a seat and strokes Fang's vast head. "Hello, Hagrid," he says. "How have you been?"

Hagrid chuckles. "Oh, you know me. Bin preparin' for next term's classes. I got unicorns, kneazles, hippogriffs, thestrals, and Blast-Ended Newts."

"Blast-Ended Screwts again?" Harry demands, mishearing. He remembers the creatures from his days in Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures class-they were nightmares stuffed into the angry little bodies of ugly lobsters.

"No, no, no need to look so worried," Hagrid assures him. "Blast-Ended _Newts. Like_ Screwts, but much improved."

Harry can only hope Hagrid is right about their improved nature. "So, I wanted to ask you about owl chicks," he says.

Hagrid grins. "Oh, yeah, they're not too hard if yeh know what yeh're doin'. How long ago'd Roberta lay the eggs? Do you know their father?"

Thoughtfully, Harry frowns. "Starting on the ninth, I think? I don't know the father. She must have met him while out delivering a letter."

Hagrid nods knowledgeably. "Funny creature, that Roberta. Yeh say she laid 'em in a linen closet?"

"Yeah," Harry confirms. "Made my towels into a nest and everything."

Hagrid laughs heartily, and for the rest of the afternoon, they sip tea and discuss owls. Harry leaves the cabin with an old, battered book about raising all sorts of different chicks, and for a moment, it's almost like he's in third year again, visiting Hagrid's hut for advice and terrible rock cakes. Hagrid assures him that he's welcome to visit any time, and Harry promises he'll send him updates on the owls' status.

He closes the door to Hagrid's hut behind him and is surprised to see Malfoy sitting on a giant pumpkin, emitting a soft blue glow. "Hello," greets the spirit. "I thought I'd find you here."

Harry grins. "Stalker. I was just about to see the castle up close. Care to come with?"

Draco stands and replies grandly, "I'd be _honored_."

Together they walk down the well-used dirt path from Hagrid's hut to the doors of the castle. Harry doesn't want to go in for fear of running into Headmistress McGonagall, but he's perfectly happy to observe from outside. He gasps softly when he sees the bricks up close.

On each smooth, gray stone, there is the name of someone who died defending the castle. _Colin Creevey, _one reads. _Lavender Brown, _says another. And-

_Draco Malfoy. _

"Look," Harry breathes, reaching out with a hand to trace the letters. Malfoy steps over and inhales sharply.

"I didn't think they'd include me," he murmurs, reaching out to touch the brick. Harry removes his own hand to give Draco better access.

Harry swallows. "I told McGonagall what you did," he explains softly. "I-I couldn't bear them thinking of you as a Death Eater."

"I _was _a Death Eater," Draco responds, frowning. If he were corporeal, Harry would kiss the frown away. But he can't.

"Not in the end," he responds after a minute. "Not when it mattered most."

Draco turns his head to the side, but not before Harry sees a shimmering tear drop down his cheek.

**July 16th:**

Today, Harry plans to visit Diagon Alley. He intends to get a gift for Molly Weasley, which he will bring to the Weasley sunday dinner the next day as a sort of peace offering. He still doesn't know what to get her, but he figures he'll know the right gift when he sees it.

He dons a reasonably nice set of robes and matching trousers, with a button down shirt underneath. Looking in the mirror, Harry feels a bit overdressed, but as this is the norm in the wizarding world, he will have to make do.

When Draco appears, he raises his eyebrows at Harry appreciatively, demanding, "Why have you spent all this time wearing terrible muggle outfits if you owned actual, respectable robes?"

Harry smirks. "Because it annoyed you," he says innocently. "Now, come along, we're going shopping."

Draco turns a shocked gaze on Harry. "You? Going out into the real world where you might get recognized? And you're _not _having a mental breakdown at the very thought? Who _are_ you?"

"Someone who might get crucified if he shows up at the Burrow without a gift for Molly," he responds dryly. Harry pulls out his wand and taps his glasses once, transforming them into a less iconic pair of rectangular spectacles. He makes sure his fringe is covering his scar, then he turns to Malfoy. "Are you coming?" he asks.

Malfoy is staring at him, but turns away when Harry looks back. "Of course I'm coming. You have no idea how _boring _the afterlife is. Besides, who knows what sort of atrocity you'd get poor Molly if I wasn't there to supervise?"

"Hey! I know what gifts she likes."

Malfoy just shakes his head. "We'll see about that. Diagon Alley?"

"Diagon Alley," Harry confirms. He spins on the spot and apparates.

Malfoy fades into existence beside him, looking around at the bustling shopping center. It is bright, colorful, full of magic and all sorts of different shops and people. The sky is blue and cloudless, lending light to the happy alley. "It's been too long since I've been here," he admits.

Their first stop is Flourish and Blotts, where Harry thinks he might find a new cookbook for Molly. It's no use, though, because Mrs. Weasley already owns every recipe worth owning.

So they leave and head to the apothecary, hoping to find her some new household cleaning potions. But all the nice ones are outrageously expensive, and though Harry wouldn't mind spending large sums on his surrogate family, he suspects Molly would be offended if he tried to get her anything of that price.

So they go from store to store, searching and searching but finding nothing. Malfoy laughs gleefully when he discovers a toy store that has an entire Harry Potter section, and threatens to steal a Harry Potter Action Figure (Complete with Invisibility Cloak and Firebolt!) if Harry doesn't buy it for him. So he does, because he disapproves of stealing, and Draco spends the rest of their shopping excursion cackling and making Harry's plastic likeness soar around on his little broom.

Finally they enter a little shop that, while far too cutesy for Harry or Draco, has just the sort of merchandise they think Molly would appreciate. The walls are decorated with floral wallpaper, and the saleswitch behind the counter somewhat resembles Dolores Umbridge (who, Harry thinks, would probably love this shop).

"Look, Action Figure Harry!" exclaims Draco to his plastic figurine. "It's a plate with a kitten on it!"

Harry rolls his eyes and tells Draco, "I thought you said you had taste."

"I do," he replies. "I'm just not so sure about little Plastic Harry, here."

Finally they settle on a beautifully embroidered (and reasonably priced) apron for Molly, and Harry walks out of the store feeling quite satisfied with his purchase. Still, shopping has been an exhausting experience, so he collapses dramatically onto the sofa when he arrives back at his cottage.

Draco rolls his eyes. "So dramatic. Action Figure Harry is _much_ less dramatic than you."

"Action Figure Harry deserves to die."

Draco gasps with utmost offense, and places the little toy on Harry's coffee table. "I'll be back soon," he warns, "and if I discover you've hurt my action figure in any way, there will be consequences."

"Get out of here, Draco." Harry grins.

Draco smirks back and fades away.

**July 17th:**

Malfoy pops in briefly that afternoon, making Harry's heart soar and his stomach fill with butterflies, but leaves when it's time for Harry to depart for dinner with the Weasleys. He's more nervous than he cares to admit, but he doesn't falter in his decision to come as he puts on his favorite Weasley sweater and apparates to the already bustling Burrow.

Ron and Hermione have clearly just arrived-they stand laughing on the doorstep, about to enter. Both of them smile warmly when they see Harry.

"Harry!" greets Ron, waving. Harry grins and walks over to where they stand, just outside the door.

"Hey, Ron. Hermione," he says.

Ron points to the bag in Harry's hand and asks quietly, "That for Mum?"

Harry nods. "It's an apron."

Ron nods in approval. "She's been wanting a new one," he tells Harry. "She'll love it."

Relieved, Harry follows his friends into the crowded Burrow. Bill and a very pregnant Fleur sit together on the sagging sofa, chatting with Charlie, whose hair is longer than ever. Percy sits stiffly in an armchair, conversing pompously with Penelope Clearwater, who must now be his wife. George, Ginny, and a girl Harry has never met before are petting a giant black Newfoundland while Arthur asks them about muggle dog collars. The dog must be his.

"Hey," yells Ron as he marches in. "Hermione, Harry and I are here!"

The room goes quiet as all eyes turn to Harry. He waves awkwardly. Then George yells, "Welcome back, Harry!" and everything is loud again.

Arthur slaps him on the back while Fleur dashes over to give him a kiss on the cheek. Ginny grins at him, and Charlie waves back happily, until every Weasley has greeted him but Molly.

The kind, plump woman stands in the doorway leading to the kitchen, her hair tied up in a bun. She wears an old, ratty apron that looks ready to fall apart.

"Hi, Mrs. Weasley," Harry says awkwardly. He hands her the bag nervously. "I got you something."

She raises one eyebrow at him sternly, and saying nothing, reaches into the brown bag. Her face lights up when she pulls out the gift.

"Oh, Harry," she exclaims, holding it up to examine the beautiful, embroidered apron. "How did you know I needed one of these?"

He shrugs, smiling hopefully. "Intuition?"

Molly beams at him and puts on the new apron; it looks perfect on her. She pulls Harry into a bone-crushing hug. "I knew you'd come back," she tells him once he's been released.

And just like that, he is re-accepted into the Weasley clan.

Dinner, made up of many dishes, is warm, filling, and delicious. Mrs. Weasley insists on piling his plate high, and serving him seconds and thirds before he even asks for them. Conversation around the table flows easily.

Harry meets George's new girlfriend, a french girl named Elodie whose hobbies include Quidditch, playing the electric guitar, and dying her curly hair a new color every week. Her English leaves a lot to be desired, but she sits next to Fleur, who is happy to translate. She and George share the same sense of humor, and over the course of the dinner, they burst out into laughter multiple times over jokes that nobody else understands.

Dessert involves a lot of homemade, flavorful pies that disappear rapidly as everyone helps themselves to second and third slices.

Harry leaves that night having promised to be back next week, and he goes to sleep comfortably full and happily tired.

**July 18th:**

Hermione returns that day with an enormous tome, her muggle notebook, and a face that shows she means business. Malfoy had arrived a half-hour earlier, ready for research, so although he doesn't show it, Harry can tell he is glad that Hermione has come.

"Hello, Harry," she greets as she walks in. "Is Draco here already?"

Harry hugs her and replies, "Yeah, over there." He points to the corner of the couch where Draco is lazily sprawled, holding his Harry Potter Action Figure and watching him zoom around on his tiny Firebolt, making noises like "_Bshhhhhhh_!" to imitate the sounds of a broom. This, of course, is all in order to maximize Harry's annoyance.

"Hello, Draco," Hermione says politely, walking over to the couch to sit down beside the spirit. "Say, is that a Harry Potter Action Figure?"

Harry groans and facepalms as Draco taps his wand to the figurine's head to make him nod. Hermione giggles.

"I have a theory about what happened to Draco," she informs them after Harry has confiscated Draco's toy. "What day did Draco appear here, Harry?"

"July first."

"Around midday?" Hermione asks.

"How did you know that?" Harry wonders curiously.

"It's part of the theory," she says, scribbling something down in her notebook.

Draco lifts his eyebrows at whatever Hermione is writing. "What _is _the theory?" he asks.

Harry conveys the message for him.

Hermione responds, "Well, I don't know if it's true yet. For that, I need to know… Draco, how did you die?"

The room is silent.


End file.
